


A Taste of Penance

by Diomysl



Category: American Gods (TV), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bretagne is one lovely mysterious place, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Cernunnos according to my ignorant imagination, Hannibal is thought dead and now lives in France, I love France but Mad is one angry ginger, Le Fantôme suit because it's glorious, M/M, Sweeney is Wednesday's bitch, sex and blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:17:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diomysl/pseuds/Diomysl
Summary: Mad Sweeney has been sent by Odin to west of France to find Cernunnos, most probably to fulfill some shady plan concerning his war.He is certain to die from boredom, until he meets of strange specimen in a local bar... A sophisticated man from out of the world.





	A Taste of Penance

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers !  
> -English is not my first language, sometimes I use phrasings and expressions that come directly out of French. If you notice something or have difficulties understanding, do feel free to notice me ! I only wish to improve. 
> 
> -I imagine scenes as if they were videos, but sometimes it doesn't work as well when written. As I said before, do tell if you think something is not very clear and can be improved.
> 
> -I'm not an expert in history, mythology, french culture or anything. Everything you'll see here is my own, small knowledge transposed in the thoughts of one angry Leprechaun. I hope not to offend anyone. 
> 
> -Sooooo I dressed Hannibal as Le Fantôme in the Ford commercial Mads Mikkelsen starred in, 'cause I loved it so much. Forgive my soul. :P
> 
> Voilà, I hope you'll enjoy !
> 
> French version coming soon.

It was raining hard that night; the freezing water had taken over the quiet town, trapping all of his senses. All he could see was the reflection of the few street lights through the thousand of droplets. All he could smell was the freshness of the flooded road, the drenched trees, the dripping stone walls. And all he could feel was his clothes clinging to every inch of his skin. He let out a snarl. ‘might as well call this land Atlantis. He had never been one to be inconvenienced by the rain but right now it was pissing him off. A shithole land in a shithole country. Nothing for him there. Fucking asshole, this Wotan. The task he asked of him was either a punition or a distraction to get him out of his way, he was certain of that. He kept on wandering for a few minutes, hands glued in his pockets, mind swirling with thoughts of hatred towards the old hustler bastard. 

Until, something caught his eye through the flood. A neon sign glittering on the other side of the sidewalk. The sight got a smirk out of him. O’Morgann. Undoubtedly one of those pubs trying to exploit the celtic heritage of the region. Most of the times, it was all about appearances, they had no real meat under the skin. People believed in opportunities and money more than anything.

However, he headed right to the pub, eager to escape the sadness of the skies and warm himself up with a good lager. 

He vigorously opened the door and urged inside, almost flying over the threshold. Yet his enthusiasm died down in his chest as soon as he laid his eyes on the sullen interior. He stood straight in the entrance for a good seconds, glaring. Really, what a dump. He dragged his grumpiness to the counter and risked a look on the drinks menu. He snorted in disapproval. Better go straight to whiskey rather than choking on those fruity, sweety paley ales.

Yet, he somehow ended up ordering mead. The owner, acting out as a barmaid, had made quite a case about it, in a not simply broken but downright trampled english. To him, mead tasted like a drunken diabetic’s piss, but, well, finding the drink of the gods here in this small town bar in the middle of nowhere had the bittersweet taste of irony. Sometimes, he did enjoy a good ol’ theatrical moment -and to be honest, that was the most exciting moment he had lived since he arrived here. He deserved be beaten, to fight and perish in a war that wasn’t his, sure… However no one on earth deserved that much boredom. Already he was boiling from the inside because of the void that constituted this place, and the void that he felt in himself. He really had nothing to do here. 

He sat on a stool, back turned to the counter, letting his eyes scan the room. Old farmers, old fishermen, old unemployed men. All staring into the abyss (if not already in their tombs), shabby, wrinkled. The conversations weren’t louder than the sound of a clover growing. Only a young couple heated up the place with their blabbering. He stared at them. The boy was fondling with his lover’s fingers as if she was a knot to entangle -and hell if she was anything else than a knot. Her whole past, present and future seemed entangled in a bubble of delusions, neurosis and stress. A certain irritation began to rise in his chest as he sipped a mouthful of the liquid gold. Their yapping purposely filled the silence and the atmosphere; eager to show how mature they were to come to this “peaceful” place rather than going to party their brains out in Ibiza. How much he wanted to seize them by the collar and shove their faces into their own shit… 

He finished his glass in one go and ordered another one, still not bothering to speak french -although he mastered the damned language. He had actually followed from afar the evolution of the Celts in France and how this gallo-romance bullshit slowly conquered the whole land and supplanted every other lingo. Gaelic languages almost ended up as sheer memories in this country -but one should never underestimate the power of tradition and chauvinism.  
Bretons had kept on clinging to their celt identities, to a point where even in the XXIst century, road indications in the region were written in both French and Breton. For some, this inheritance was an opportunity to sell triskele pendants, fairy dolls and all those ridiculous folklore-exploiting products. However, some others resisted the invasion of “modernity". And they believed. 

Damn those creatures for being such knob heads. Because of them, the breathing old rag that was Wotan had sent him there to die of boredom -and find yet another asshat to be used in this ridiculous war. But not just any asshat -no ! Of course it had to be the one he despised the most in this fucking land. The God of the lunatics. 

Shoving the rest of his second glass into his throat, he snarled. It seemed like he had pushed his luck a bit too far and was experiencing the aftermath. An exaggerated gesture later, here was another glass. Merci ma bonne dame. He sustained the glare of the owner, visibly disappointed to see her beverage being treated with such insensitivity. 

“Don’t bother lady, I judge myself plenty enough already.”

He turned his back and raised his glass yet again but stopped his motion halfway. Something -someone, had escaped his gaze until now. And at the moment, he was all he could see. A man that did not belong to this world -neither the world of humans nor the world of the gods. “You lucky man,” he muttered. He jumped off the stool and headed to the solitary table in the corner of the room. A falcon diving towards an unsuspecting mouse. An albino mouse nonetheless, he taught, amused by the suit of the stranger. What kind of man would wear a beige three-piece suit in a land where the sky would not stop crying and mudding up the whole place ? 

As he approached the table, the man didn’t bother to lift his head. Annoyed but not discouraged, he circled him and leaned on the wall, arms crossed, gazing over the fantom’s shoulders. He whistled in appreciation. The man was focused on a pencil drawing. He himself was no savant when when it came to arts but he sure could identify a fine piece. It was a complex, realistic chef d’œuvre representing a scene that seemed to come straight out of ancient tales of greek battles. He kept on staring, somehow mesmerized, until the pencil stopped dancing on the paper sheet. With careful and delicate movements, the man closed his hardback notebook and joined his hands in a knot, slightly raising his head. He looked around the room, still not paying attention to the all-wet, crazy-looking giant standing behind him. 

“I believe you have some business with me. I would be grateful if you would cease looming over me like a shark and state your interest. Rudeness is not a thing I enjoy to deal with.”

The voice was cordial, almost sweet, but with a menacing after-taste. It felt like this of a mermaid, singing only to lure some prey into a dark abyss. He repressed a roar of laughter. The whole being of the beige mystery man annoyed him. A savageness distilled in sophistication. He gobbled his drink and slammed the glass on the table. The elegant hat jumped on the wooden surface, although the elegant man did not flinch a ounce.  
The Irish guessed that the customers and owner were watching him with a glimpse of suspicion, but chose not to care. This ought to be interesting -given that he resisted the urge to smash the man’s face to shatter this disgusting mask of his. However, he could use a good fight. 

“The name’s Mad Sweeney.”

He internally flinched at the use of the surname he hated so much. He had unconsciously completely accepted this demeaning treatment by others and started to take part of it -probably as some kind of punishment to himself. 

“I figured you weren’t from here. Came up to share some good time with a fellow stranger.”

The said stranger leaned on his chair, resting an arm on the backrest. He half turned to Sweeney and, finally, looked at him. Feeling the amber gaze weighing on him gave him a satisfaction that almost got out through a smile, which he refrained. The eyes of the man marked the epitome of a wolf in a sheep’s mantle. Then, the voice came back to accentuate the impression.

“Mad is the written form of the Danish word for “food”. Are you looking to get eaten with a surname like this, Mr. Sweeney ?”

The redhead snorted and moved to the chair closest to the man ; reverting the chair and resting his forearms on the ladder-back. He plunged his own eyes into the deep gaze that was following his movements. The pupils were circled by an almost supernatural blend of thick honey and dried blood. 

“You’re a tough one. Form the northlands then, aye ?”

“I can’t say I am.”

Sweeney processed his accent. The face screamed “Scandinavian” ; all in bones, thin nose, almost nonexistent eyebrows, eyes like forest spiders hidden in their lairs, waiting for a prey. He tried not to linger on the lips -something about that mouth was making him really uncomfortable. 

“You do have the looks, though. Just not the sound.”

“Looks can be deceptive. Hearing is our most naturally developed and therefore our most fiable sense. Be careful about what you chose to trust.”

“Don’t start me on the looks. I’m a big fucking Leprechaun. My shoulders are constantly squeezed by narrow views of the world.”

A thin, transparent eyebrow raised at those words. Sweeney smiled, exposing his tobacco stained teeth. He had captured the interest of the stranger. His head went to rest on his forearms, in a imitation of someone ready to start making confidences.  
Another smile, carnivorous, formed on his face. 

“So, tell me who you worship, I’ll tell you where you come from.”


End file.
